


Worship

by The_Torturer_Writes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Boot Worship, F/M, bootblack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 11:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25849036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Torturer_Writes/pseuds/The_Torturer_Writes
Summary: From this prompt:  findyourdarkness  asked:Could I potentially request Kylo Ren and being stepped on by him in his boots? Is that a kink? I severely would love to see his bloody battle worn boots on me. Face even haha He enjoys the power and fear and total domination. I guess degradation kink? Just fits the whole mantra I live by - I am not even worthy for the dirt on the bottom of his shoes. Lol (if this isn't up your alley, no worries, I haven't requested before so really not sure I'm doing it right). sorry and thankyou. 🖤 ._.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13
Collections: Torturer Tuesdays





	Worship

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I love some stomping, this turned into something else. If you’re not familiar with boot blacks or the ritual nature of it, I highly recommend some googling. It is worth the effort. That being said, here we go.

When the day started, everything was normal. Breakfast, bath, work. You set up your stand in your usual spot, chatted with a few of the others, and had your first customer in minutes.

Mid-day, normal was shattered; and now, you were pinned to a gangway by a hefty, unyielding boot at each arm.

They towered over you, the Knights of Ren and pinned you there like a groaning insect. You jerked against them feebly, thrashing and desperately trying not to be affected by the weight.

“What the fuck do you want?!”

The man in black, larger even than all the rest, parted the circle and stepped directly on your throat.

No chance you didn’t whimper. No chance your eyes didn’t flutter and your lips didn’t quiver. Moments like this were the exact reason you took the apprenticeship in the first place.

“You’ve been sold.” He increased his weight upon you, drawing a strangled sound from your compressed vocal chords.

You balked. The Supreme fucking Leader bought your fucking contract. The Knights all but threw you into the craft, and their leader, bereft of his helmet, pointed off-handedly to your kit.

“Work.”

What choice did you have? Biting your tongue to hide the sneer, you picked a Knight at random and reluctantly obeyed. Knelt on the harsh grate, you cajoled his foot onto the inclined box lid and set to your task.

One by one, you worked your way through all of the Knights. Clean, pack your kit, move to another. You smothered the thought of asking them to come to you because you doubted there was kindness in any of them.

The method of it, the routine of it, drew you in as it always did. Halfway through the second Knight, you were calm, soothed by the work and no longer anxiously angry. You even settled into a gentle hum, managing to convince yourself it was just another day at the job.

At the Supreme Leader, you refused to even make eye contact. He told you to work, after all. Small talk wasn’t part of the job. Before you could lift his boot, however, his even, melodic voice drew your stare.

“I was told you were among the best in the Galaxy.” He gestured around to the Knights. “Is that your best?”

Mashing your lips into a tight line, you cleared your throat to stem the waiver of your voice.

“You said work,” you drew in a battered breath, hoping to find some measure of strength there. “Not worship.”

A dark brow cocked high up, but you couldn’t tell if it was disbelief or surprise. 

“Show me.”

His voice was stern, all rough edges and demand, and it sizzled fire through your body. Gripping your brush tight, you forced yourself to hold his eyes and not shy away.

“No.”

The speed at which the man’s fist connected with your neck was astonishing. His thumbs dug into the muscle cruelly, and he shook loose an audible whine.

“No? Then, I’ll polish my boots with your blood.”

“Do it, but you don’t deserve it. All you do is take.” It was a hoarse whisper, but you wouldn’t let him tarnish the only thing you loved with his anger. 

A dark look spread, and his grip lessened. His thumb massaged the flesh where the bruise would bloom. He studied your face for a long moment; and when his voice next came, it was low, seductive.

“Show me. I’ll void your contract and pay you its worth.” The outright shock must have flitted across your face because he nodded and released your neck. “Show me.”

It wasn’t the worst fate. He was beautiful, and he definitely had the means to pay you. But was he a man of his word?

Your shoulders sank on a resigned breath. Nudging your tools away, you inched closer to this living void.

Tentatively, you slid your fingers up his corded calf. Guiding his boot to your thigh, you let loose a shaky breath as you set it there. At your glance, the Supreme Leader’s mouth twitched, an interested gleam dancing in his eyes. Hastily, you unbuckled the straps and adjusted the balance of his foot.

A moment’s hesitation, that’s all it took for the toe of that boot to nudge the underside of your breast. It was still a demand, but a gentle one, and you felt wholly manipulated by it as that breast swelled at the attention.

When you tugged off your grungy tank, he sat forward in his chair, clearly more intrigued. Carefully, reverently, you brushed away loose mud, dirt, and debris with your very clothing. You followed with the stiff brush to unlock all the caked-on detritus masking the black below.

Immediately, you slipped into the ritual, losing track of all else.

Cupping his ankle, you lifted his leg higher and spread your knees wider. Something rumbled in his chest when you set the sole of his boot upon your sternum. You wrapped one hand over the toe to keep it steady and repeated the process on the heel and back.

When you had completed the left boot, his footprints decorated both thighs and breasts. He watched you intently and curled his finger through your hair. Turning your shirt inside out, you worked soap into the leather all around the foot of the boot before nestling it between your thighs.

A heated growl accompanied the wide hand palming at your scalp, but you shook your head and pushed at his wrist to relax his grip.

“Let it soak.”

At your husky instruction, he stopped wiggling his foot against your cunt begrudgingly. Up from the ankle, you applied the creamy cleaner in concentric circles to the brim. A slow tug rubbed it into each strap, and you heard his muffled groan. It was perfectly clear what he pictured. 

After soap came conditioner and then a light coat of polish. The boots didn’t need to shine, but it would afford them greater longevity. Finishing, you guided his boots to the floor and tucked them close together. Scooting in, you caged his feet with your thighs and leaned against his shins. Absently, your fingers massaged his ankle bones through the barrier.

You weren’t prepared to see him so transfixed when you looked up, but he was flushing a magnificent shade of aroused. He didn’t even try to hide the obvious erection in his pants.

“Thank you,” you licked your lips, your gaze proud, “for letting me care for your boots.”

He brushed his thumb across your mouth and leaned to whisper in your ear.

“Next time, you’ll do that naked.”


End file.
